by Kyra Davis
Anatoly met my eyes. I knew he was trying to gauge if I was joking or just suffering from a brief bout of hysteria thanks to the earlier events of the evening, but something in my expression must have told him that neither was the case. Quietly, he crossed to the corner of the living room where he had left his duffle bag from work, and from it he pulled out a .45. “Stay here,” he whispered, and with a sharpness and stealth that most of us can’t pull off at three o’clock in the morning, he crept up the stairs. Watching him do this in boxer shorts was kind of a surreal experience. Daniel Craig couldn’t have been better.
In a moment he disappeared from sight. Mr. Katz continued to crouch under the coffee table. When I had followed him down the stairs a few minutes earlier, he had seemed like he had some kind of clarity of thought and was trying to communicate with me. Now he just seemed like…well, like a cat.
I tore open one of my many boxes and dug my hand into a sea of crumpled newspaper and Bubble Wrap looking for something heavy. My hand settled on a crystal vase. Dena had used a similar vase to defend both of us from an attacker once and ever since I had grown an affinity for them. This one was heavier than the one Dena had used. Obviously it wasn’t a gun, and the taped-on Bubble Wrap might soften the blow, but still, it served the purpose of making me feel a little tougher. I may not have bullets, but I do have Lalique.
According to the wall clock, Anatoly was up there for a full four minutes before coming down to give me the all clear. “It probably was just me you heard after all,” he reasoned. “The mind can plays tricks in the middle of the night.”
Yes, but can the mind make your cat start acting like a small, laconic version of the Lion of Narnia? And what about the voice? But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I collapsed on the couch and motioned for Anatoly to join me.
“I take it you couldn’t sleep.”
“I was pretending for your sake.”
“You need to improve your acting skills. I knew you were awake.”
“Then why did you fall asleep?”
“Am I required to have insomnia every time you do?”
“On the nights that I discover a dead body, yes, you’re required to stay up with me.”
“Sophie, that’s at least eight or nine nights a year.”
I smacked him on the thigh and he laughed softly. “I am sorry you had to see that,” he said with a slightly more somber tone. He pulled me to him and I rested my head on his shoulder. “You’ve had a tough time of it lately.”
“Yeah, but I do have a new house.”
“Almost have it,” Anatoly said softly. “It’ll be yours in about a week.”
I didn’t argue this time. I mean, technically, he was right. How was I supposed to explain that this house belonged to me in a way that completely transcended any technicality?
“I think,” Anatoly continued, “that this house is too big for one person.”
I turned my face away. I had planned on asking him to live with me, but…but there was something I was supposed to do first. There was that sense of agitation again. What was it? What was I forgetting? Or had I ever known?
“Sophie? Are you all right?”
“What? Oh, yeah, I’m okay. I’m just…thinking.”
“About Enrico?” Anatoly nodded without waiting for my answer. It was one of the few times he had ever misread me. Well, there was that short period of time right after we met when he thought I was a serial killer, but other than that small error he had pretty much had my number from the get-go. But since he had brought Enrico up…
“How did the killer get out?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” Anatoly said. “And nobody commits suicide by slitting his own throat with a scythe. I’m not even sure it’s possible. Besides, he was in the middle of cooking a meal. That’s not usually the time people choose to end it all.”
“Yeah, but he was a chef. Maybe his soufflé didn’t rise and he got a little emotional…oh God, I can’t believe I just said that. I’m a horrible, horrible person.”
“No, you’re just a normal person,” Anatoly assured me. “A person who has had to toughen up due to life experience and several close calls. But to get back to the point, suicide doesn’t make sense here. It also doesn’t seem possible that someone could get out of an apartment and then lock it from the inside.”
“Did you ever watch The X-Files?” I asked.
“No.”
“Well, there was this one episode where there was a murderer who could sort of change his genetic makeup in order to squeeze through otherwise prohibitively narrow openings…”
“I don’t think that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“Neither do I, but it would be interesting if it was.”
“No doubt.” He smiled at Mr. Katz, who had finally come out from under the coffee table and was making a pillow out of Anatoly’s feet. “Who knows, maybe the police will find fingerprints, catch the killer and this whole thing will be over in the morning.”
“If it doesn’t play out that way we’re going to remain prime suspects.”
“For a while that’s true,” Anatoly agreed. “But not for long. We have absolutely no relationship with Enrico and we just met Maria today. Establishing a motive for murder would be nearly impossible. And the idea that we would break into the apartment of a man we didn’t know with a woman we didn’t know and then sit idly by while she took out a scythe…that’s beyond the suspension of disbelief.”
“I hope you’re right.” As I let myself become enveloped in his warmth, my eyelids became significantly heavier. Maybe my mind had been playing tricks on me. There had been no voice; Mr. Katz had not had a moment of depth and complexity; there had been no inexplicable thumps in the night. “I think I’m getting sleepy now,” I offered.
“Good, because I really don’t want to stay up with you tonight. Let’s go to bed.”
He took my hand and led me back up the stairs. Everything was going to be fine. The police would catch Enrico’s killer, and once the shock of the whole thing wore off, I’d no longer get spooked without a good reason.
And eventually I’d figure out what exactly it was I was supposed to do. When I did, I might be able to get rid of the nagging sensation that Enrico’s comments about being haunted now applied to me.
7
Men love their freedom, unless you give it to them.
—The Lighter Side of Death
THE NEXT MORNING, I MANAGED TO GET UP IN TIME TO CATCH THE second half of the eight o’clock news. Anatoly was already awake and showered since he had a case he had to tend to. He brought me a cup of coffee and a Spanish omelet. There are major benefits to dating someone who loves to cook.
The news shows were dominated by the story of Enrico’s murder. They didn’t have all the details, but they did know that it had been Maria, Anatoly and me who had found him. Apparently we were all unavailable for comment. I suppose that was the benefit of relying solely on a cell phone.
“The police won’t tell the press who their suspects are,” I called out as Anatoly went back into the kitchen to refill his travel mug.
“Reporters aren’t stupid. They’re going to figure it out.”
“I’m supposed to bring my mom over here this evening to see the house. I so don’t want to have to tell her about this.”
“Then don’t. There’s a fifty-fifty chance she hasn’t seen the news yet.”
“Are you kidding? She’s probably been on the phone with every single member of Hadassah by now, kvetching about her daughter, the Angel of Death. I’ll be lucky if she even waits ’til tonight to ream me. She may show up on my doorstep any minute with a rolled-up newspaper and a bagful of Jewish guilt.”
As if on cue, my doorbell rang. Anatoly came back into the living room and threw me a questioning look. “You want me to get it?”
I gave him a what-do-you-think look before gathering up my breakfast and moving it into the dining room where I could hear without being seen.
Anatoly’s irritated groan should have been a hint as to who was at the door, but it wasn’t until I heard Scott’s voice that the pieces came together. “Is she here?” he asked. “I need to see her.”
“You’re not invited in,” Anatoly said sternly.
“I saw her on the news!” Scott retorted, as if that somehow entitled him entry.
“You’re not coming in, Scott.”
“I just want to talk to her!”
“Sorry.”
“I brought Frappuccinos!”
“It’s all right, Anatoly. He can come in, but just for a minute,” I said, putting my plate onto the small dining table and moving into view.
The scowl Scott had been wearing a second earlier transformed into a huge grin as he saluted me with a plastic Venti cup. Anatoly’s scowl stayed firmly in place. He glanced at his watch and his jaw twitched in frustration. “I have to get going,” he said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
Anatoly regarded me skeptically. “Why don’t I wait while you get dressed,” he suggested.
Scott turned on him with apparent exasperation. “For Christ’s sake, man, she’s wearing leggings and a T-shirt. What do you want her to wear around me? A burka?”
Anatoly moved toward Scott with obvious menace, but I quickly stepped in between the two. “Scott’s not a threat,” I said, placing a hand on Anatoly’s tensed shoulder. “He’s not even a distraction.”
Anatoly hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Call me if you need me.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “But then, I always call on you to satisfy my…needs.” That last comment was for Scott’s benefit, but it seemed to mollify Anatoly. He leaned in for a long, lingering kiss. He tasted like coffee and Tabasco, my favorite flavors. Behind me I could hear Scott shuffling his feet. The reminder of his presence motivated me to slip my hand into the back pocket of Anatoly’s jeans. I felt the laugh that he was stifling as he gently pulled away.
“I’ll see you later.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed and watched him collect his duffle bag filled with various spy stuff and walk out my door.
“Quite a show,” Scott said. While still behind me, he had taken a step closer so that his voice seemed to be coming from directly over my head. “Was it for my benefit?”
“In part. If you hadn’t been here there would have been less kissing, but more groping.” I turned to face him and took a step back for breathing room. “Thanks for the Frappuccino. If there isn’t anything else, you can go.”
Scott hesitated for a moment and then turned and went over to the dining-room window where he stared out at the street. “Is it true, Sophie?” he asked. “You really found Enrico…dead?”
“It’s true,” I said, suddenly aware of my insensitivity. “I’m sorry…for your loss I mean.”
“It wasn’t my loss. Enrico and I were never more than reluctant acquaintances. He thought I was obnoxious.”
“Really?” I took a long sip of my drink. Apparently Enrico and I had a lot in common.
“I’m still tripping out on this,” Scott continued. “We just found Oscar a few weeks ago. Now Enrico?” He turned around, his eyebrows raised in question. “What were you doing over there anyway?”
“How is this your business?” I asked. “Especially if Enrico wasn’t even a friend?”
“Yeah, but you are!”
“Since when?”
“Fine, whatever, you hate me, but I don’t hate you.” He looked around for something to sit on and when he noted that every chair was holding the stuff I hadn’t found a place for yet, he leaned against the wall. “I actually like you a lot and that’s why I want to warn you.”
“About?”
“About Kane. He saw the report, too. He called me this morning to talk about it.”
“So?”
“So he’s not so eager to sell his house to someone who is a suspect in a murder investigation. And escrow is still six days away from closing.”
“No!” I cried. “He can’t take my house!”
“Look, I don’t think he’s going to do anything drastic, not after I talked to him, but he has questions.”
“Whatever he wants to know, I’ll tell him. All he has to do is ask.”
“Fine, fine. But we need to sit down and talk this out. I need you to tell me exactly what happened and then if there’s something we need to spin for Kane’s benefit we can brainstorm on how to do that together.”
“Why together? Neither one of us has ever had a problem spinning on our own.”
“I know Kane. I know what he wants to hear and you know what actually happened and what he’s likely to find out through Maria and the press. We need to work together if we’re going to ensure that he never finds his way to the no-spin zone. Besides,” he said, his mouth curving into an insidious smile, “I like spinning with you.”
Suddenly I wished Anatoly was still there. “Look, this is stupid. We don’t need to come up with a story because the truth is totally innocent. Maria came over last night because when she went over to Enrico’s place, he wouldn’t open the door and it freaked her out. She wanted to know what Enrico had said to me on the phone and then she hired Anatoly on the spot to go over to Enrico’s to find out what was up. I tagged along and then we all found Enrico’s bloody dead body lying next to an antique scythe. That’s it, end of story.”
Scott stared at me blankly for a minute before breaking into a full laugh. “You don’t actually expect Kane to buy that, do you?”
“It’s the truth!” I snapped.
“Maybe so, but it smells like bullshit.”
“Yeah, well, so do you. Why don’t you just go back to your Goddess of Love and leave me alone so I can have some peace and calm?”
Scott tilted his head to the side. “Peace and calm? Why, Soapy, are you unable to stay calm when I’m around?”
“Okay, that’s it, we’re done.” I marched to my front door and flung it open. “Get out now!” I swung around, prepared to stare Scott down but disappointed to discover that he wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Wow, this Spanish omelet is great!” he called from the dining room.
I slammed the door and marched right back to where Scott was. “Stop eating my food!” I demanded, pointing accusingly at the plate in his hand.
Scott took two more bites. “That is seriously good,” he said, his voice muffled by eggs. “When did you learn to cook?”
“Never. Anatoly made this for me.”
“Did he now?” The mocking tone was unmistakable. “What a good little wife he’ll make.”
I stepped forward and snatched my fork from his hands. “He’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.” As soon as I said the words I slapped my hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“I know. It was right out of a bad soap opera.”
“But I never sound like a bad soap opera! I’m a writer!”
“Who do you think writes the bad soap operas? Chimps? Wait a minute, was it you? Were you the writer responsible for Erika Kane’s near-death experience?”
“Shut up,” I said, whacking him lightly on the chest. “And what does it say about you that you are aware of Erika’s brushes with death?”
“It says that there was a time in which I lacked sufficient employment.”
I laughed, and Scott’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “I’ve missed that,” he said softly. “I’ve missed that sound.”
I stiffened immediately and took my plate back. “You told me that Kane had questions. What are they specifically?” I sat down on the floor cross-legged and plowed into my breakfast, careful to keep my eyes on the eggs and not on Scott’s grin.
Scott sighed and sat beside me, a little too close. “He wants to know what drew you to Enrico’s last night.”
“I told you. I wasn’t drawn, I was hired to go. Well, Anatoly was hired. I was hired by association.”
“What I don’t understan
d is why Maria would hire Anatoly to pay her ex a visit. What exactly does your boyfriend do?”
“He kills people.”
“Really,” Scott said drily.
“Yeah, so you may want to stop flirting with me. He has little secret cameras all over this place so he can keep track of me while he’s at headquarters. You saw Mr.& Mrs. Smith? It’s just like that.”
“Sophie…”
“Okay, fine. He’s a private detective.”
“Hmm.” Scott pulled off his jacket and folded it beside him. It wasn’t a casual gesture. The T-shirt he was wearing flattered his well-built torso and he was trying to draw my attention to it. The guy was so transparent it was almost funny. No, it was funny. “On the news they said that Enrico’s condo seemed to have been locked up from the inside when you found him. How can that be true?”
“Dunno,” I said, chewing on my last bite of egg. “But that’s exactly how it was. Anatoly had to break the chain lock in order for us to get in.”
“You know, she was going to get nothing in that divorce. Venus told me their prenup was ironclad.”
“Why were they getting a divorce in the first place?”
Scott sighed and stretched out his leg, putting one ankle on top of the other. “Maria used to be old school. She was a real Italian, you know? That’s why Enrico fell in love with her. She reminded him of home.”
“So what, she’s not Italian anymore?”
“No, but she’s assimilated. She no longer speaks wistfully of siestas and promenades. She prefers Calvin Klein to Versace. Enrico could have handled all that, but then she went a little too far.”
“What’d she do?”
“She gave up carbs. Enrico was one of this country’s most prominent Italian chefs and suddenly his wife was refusing to eat pasta.”
“Wait a minute, are you telling me that the South Beach Diet ended Maria and Enrico’s marriage?”
“I don’t think it was South Beach, but still, it was a diet that destroyed their love.”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered.
“Yeah, we all thought it was nuts. And then things got predictably bitter. She wanted the parrot, one of the few things not covered in the prenup. I don’t think she ever liked that bird, but Enrico loved it, and she wanted to hurt him. In return he tried to steal away the things that were important to her.”
